


Whiskey in the Jar

by cassbuttandsquirrel



Series: Barkeep POV [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Donnie's POV, Drunk love confessions, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Outsider, Rated teen for language, somehow not that angsty, tw for use of the word f-g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassbuttandsquirrel/pseuds/cassbuttandsquirrel
Summary: Dean Remington. Definitely had introduced himself as Todd Something the first time he walked in, but the next time he’d been Dean, and again, and again, and for the last three years Donnie had never called him on it.People are, and always will be, fucking weird.[Ever wondered what Donnie thinks about the moody-ass hunters who moved to Lebanon a few years back? Sam, unfortunately, does not directly feature -- but we still love him!!][**set somewhere after S10, but there's no Mary/Jack/AU characters**]
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Donnie (Supernatural: Inside Man) & Dean Winchester
Series: Barkeep POV [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769449
Comments: 22
Kudos: 183





	Whiskey in the Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not very well acquainted with the States and I know nothing about Kansas. Please excuse any mistakes, and if you live in Kansas (Lebanon or Esbon) I took a lot of liberties so please forgive me!
> 
> Title from an old Irish drinking song which was also covered by Metallica.  
> Also I debated giving this fic the title of "Careless Whiskey" or "A Whiskey State of Mind" and honestly I'm kind of regretting my choice lol

As the only respectable watering hole in a 15-mile radius, Donnie’s bar was keeping pretty steady business. A pile of wood and cladding set up sometime in the early 20th century, which had spent some of its life as a bastardised postal office only to be returned to its gospel purpose under a more liberal government and had spent the better part of its later years booming. Well, booming was probably a bit of an exaggeration, what with the combined population of the two nearest settlements being below 500 persons. Esbon itself could never seem to break that 100 mark, hovering around 95-99 for the last handful of years. 

But Donnie had never dreamt of being some big-time chef or anything like that, he just liked people. And a roadhouse in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Kansas was sure to host a lot of interesting people. And one of them was sitting right in front of him. 

Dean Remington. Definitely had introduced himself as Todd the first time he walked in, but the next time he’d been Dean, and again, and again, and for the last three years Donnie had never called him on it. People are, and always will be, fucking weird. 

Also, this guy was definitely in some sort of crime family. When he had answered “pest control” to Donnie’s offhand question sometime in the first year of their acquaintance - well, Donnie knew some guys in wildlife management and figured that was pretty un-fucking-likely. Damn good liar though. Hustled five people out of their money on the first Friday night and Donnie had to sit him down about fucking with his clientele. After that they came to a bit of an understanding, and as Dean slowly stopped hitting on every female body in the place, he began to spend more time sitting pretty at the bar and asking Donnie enough questions about the business side of his operation to surpass a casual interest.

Dean was from Lebanon, a solid 10 miles away, and had moved there at the beginning of all this with his brother, Sam. With a couple hundred people, Lebanon probably would’ve been a better place for the founders to set up this shop, but somehow only had one beer parlor and Dean had told him he’d rather drink his own piss than frequent Dave’s. So it was looking like there was a niche in the Lebanon market that needed to be filled, but every time Donnie began to press harder at Dean’s enthusiasm - showing him land for sale, offering him the number of a local framer - he would immediately joke it off and shut up about it for the next couple of visits. 

They’ve had some good nights, where Dean chats up every single person under the cobwebbed rafters only to head off at closing alone, but grinning. But they’ve had bad ones too, where Dean asks for an entire bottle of whiskey and proceeds to get sullenly black-out drunk in the corner. By now Donnie knew that the Remington boys had lost a lot of people and in more ways than one. But the kind of guilt the two of them carried around was more than just that of missed opportunities. He figured that both of them had definitely killed some people, and from Dean’s drunken mumblings, killed some _good people_.  
_

Tonight he’s answering Dean’s question about the nearest halal butcher shop, when he gets interrupted by steadily rising voices. There’s two young kids hassling Old Pete by the door, saying some shit about perverted homeless fuckers and washed up drunks. Dean’s already put down his drink when they exchange exasperated looks. The kids have walked in at this point but they don’t get much farther than the worn door mat before Donnie asks them to leave. Their response is just a lengthy tirade of slurs and when they’ve finished Dean calmly replies:

“Dude, not cool.” 

The shorter one is practically steaming when he bites:  
“What are you going to do about it, fag.” 

It’s a good thing Donnie already has hands on both their collars because the look on Dean’s frozen face is indecipherable and he isn’t about to have to clean blood out of the cracked floorboards.

When he returns after shoving the kids out on the street, Dean’s already grabbed the new whiskey from the shelf and knocked back a good quarter of it. Sexual orientation had always been a topic that Donnie had generally skirted away from in his conversations with Dean. He’d always presented himself as painfully heterosexual, but his sister had been out and proud and in the early days he’d seen the two of them wingman for each other a couple of times. She was dead now, so Donnie could easily attribute this reaction to the mourning of a family member, but he was guessing the reason was something a lot more complicated. Whatever the reason, it was not a good excuse to go fucking up your liver and Donnie was so sick of this grown-ass man using alcohol as some sort of cure-all. He loved his Rolling Standard as much as anybody, but this was in no way healthy. He grabs a glass to polish and stands in front of Dean waiting for acknowledgement. When he gets none, he slams the sparkling tumbler down harder than necessary.

“Taking this kinda personal, huh?” He says when Dean’s eyes reluctantly flick up to his face. Those green eyes are glaring and he’s pretty sure Dean mutters a “fuck you” as he angrily pours himself another drink. 

Donnie briefly debates letting the bastard sulk alone but after the recent ruckus the bar has all but cleared out. Sally and Doug were probably fine for the rest of the evening and Charisse had no problem barging into personal conversations to demand another cosmo.

He pours himself a drink despite his better judgement and asks:  
“You want to talk about it?”

Dean is already reaching back for the bottle the previous four fingers having miraculously evaporated. His face is stony.  
Donnie signs his own death warrant and asks again, a little bit louder. 

“I’m not fucking gay.” He says it low and quiet, and places down the bottle carefully. “And I’d appreciate you fucking right off.”

Donnie has never felt so thoroughly threatened in his life. Yeah, this dude is definitely a serial killer. 

-

Three hours later it’s closing time, and Donnie’s not about to leave a fucking criminal passed out in his bar while he goes home to sleep and shower. Dean’s always been a sloppy drunk, but he drags himself awake as soon as Donnie gets within an arm’s length. 

He squints at Donnie, drool shining in his stubble, tongue thick as he tries to say something. Donnie has no capacity left for bullshit and at this point he’s so dead on his feet he might as well get murdered. 

“Just give me your phone, Dean.” The drunk hesitates blearily. “There’s no fucking Ubers in Esbon, buddy.”

After a good amount of fumbling Dean’s phone clatters on the bartop between them. There follows a brief interlude as Dean struggles to input his passcode. 

There’s about 10 unread messages from ‘Cas’ and 2 phone calls so it’s a pretty easy decision to call her back. Surprisingly, it’s a male voice that answers, and Donnie double checks the caller id. Dean’s pulled a knife out of somewhere and is clumsily jabbing it into a dark knot in the scarred wood. “Pick up for Dean on route 112?” Donnie turns it into a question before rattling off his address. “And I wouldn’t mind if someone could settle his tab.”

He startles as a man pushes through the doors. After he hung up he must’ve fallen asleep on his feet because there is no way anyone could have gotten there so quickly. 

“Cas?”

“Yes. That is my name.” The stranger says in all seriousness. 

No one has ever looked as out of place in Donnie’s as this man does now. He’s wearing a suit, with a blue tie and a crisp white button down that looks like it’s never seen a day of wear in its life. The only part of him that looks a bit lived in is the tan coat that hangs to about his knees. His shoes are the shiniest black that Donnie has ever seen outside of a church. 

Dean’s caught on that someone is here because he swings around in his stool with a grin and immediately falls off, his long legs tangling with the barstool’s and his hands too slow to catch himself. 

“Hey, buddy.” His voice is slurred from where he is awkwardly caught in Cas’s arms, but Donnie can see his soft expression. 

“Dean.” Cas is exasperatedly fond as he props the man back up against the bar. Donnie feels as though he’s been given a revelation. 

Cas is searching for his wallet. Dean swings an arm up to land on Cas’s shoulder, landing closer to his friend’s neck than he probably intended.

“Cas, Cas, Cas.” His hand creeps over the collar of the coat, until his palm rests under the hinge of his jaw. Cas has yet to pay him any attention and tugs out the card he was looking for to pass to Donnie. Donnie is so distracted he almost doesn’t take it, but it swipes through perfectly. 

Dean is starting to slip sideways and his other hand reaches clumsily to grab a chunk of tan fabric at waist height. Somehow, Cas doesn’t move or brace himself, despite the added weight as Dean rights himself. 

Cas takes back his card and Dean’s hand is now curled softly against the side of his face. Donnie can only see Dean’s profile, but he watches as Dean opens his mouth and he swears the world slows down.

“I just…” he trails off for a moment, and Cas stills against Dean’s hand and stops trying to look down to push his wallet back into his pocket. “I just, I love you, man.” 

Cas doesn’t move for a beat. He drops the wallet back on the counter and uses one hand to push Dean back upright where he was starting to list to the left. 

Donnie wishes he was not there.

Cas reaches up and pats Dean’s hand against his face, eyes crinkling with a tight smile. “I love you too, Dean.” He gently tugs Dean’s hand away with his own. 

Dean stops smiling and immediately moves his hand back in place.

“No, Cas, no, I love you.” 

For the first time since he’s arrived Cas actually makes eye contact with his drunk friend. Donnie looks away as soon as he sees Cas’s face. Clearly, this has happened before and clearly, Donnie is not meant to witness it. Cas is saying something very softly but Donnie busies himself closing out the cash and fervently ignores the exchange in front of him. He finally risks looking up when he hears a rattling snore.

Dean is fully passed out against the other man’s shoulder, and Cas is supporting his weight effortlessly as he reaches to retrieve his wallet.

“Do you want a hand?” Donnie gestures to the snoring drunk and figures he might as well help haul his friend into Cas’s vehicle. The man seems confused narrowing his eyes.

“No?”

Donnie figures the dude must be ripped. He tries his next tactic and offers to drive Dean’s car home while Cas takes him back in his own.  
Cas assures him that they will be taking the impala back themselves.

Maybe Donnie is too tired to function but things do not seem to be adding up.

“So, you’ll come by tomorrow morning then? You’d better lock up whichever car you’re leaving behind.”

More squinting. Finally, Cas grates out:  
“I didn’t bring a car.”

Donnie briefly entertains the idea that this is perhaps a dream, and he’s already in bed.  
“Then how did you get here?” Did this motherfucker walk the 10 miles to Esbon? Surely he hadn’t waited for hours for Cas to arrive.

“I was … in the area.” 

Hands down - even fucking asleep - Dean is the better liar between the two of them. There is nothing ‘in the area’ between Lebanon and Esbon unless this dude was braiding daisies along the roadside.

After a gruff thank you, Cas hustles Dean out the swinging doors and as Donnie turns the key in the lock 5 minutes later, he stares out at the empty parking lot and shakes his head.

People are, and always will be, fucking weird.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!  
> I really hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> I may turn this into a series bc I feel as though we don't have enough "Outsider POV" fics in this fandom (and thats a TRAGEDY... these hunks have insane lives.)
> 
> Hope you are staying safe and healthy!  
> Come say hi on [ Twitter! ](https://twitter.com/librarian_gamer?s=07)


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